Wants and Needs
by Miss-Murdered
Summary: John knows there are certain wants and needs that only Sherlock can fulfill.


Disclaimer: I own nothing

Pairings/Warnings: Johnlock, m/m sex, angst, bad language,

A/N: This is my first time writing in this fandom and this is un-beta'd so apologies for any mistakes. I hopefully have caught them all.

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**Wants and Needs**

The young man had rubbed his palms against his ripped jeans, nerves showing as he'd completed his story. John had observed the things he needed to – that he was young, that he wore cheap clothing which meant his income was low. That he dressed alternatively with holes in his ears which meant, usually, that he worked in retail or something without a strict dress code and that meant a minimum wage position was probably his current occupation. He also observed the way he spoke, the way his voice changed pitch every time he said "her" or "Emily" – the signs of a young man in love in every syllable. It was charmingly pathetic. And charmingly low key for Sherlock.

So he – Sam as he had been called, so ordinary - had been dismissed, dismissed as that's what Sherlock did and John could only shake his head as he closed the door on him, the young man apologising for wasting their time and John being only able to apologise for Sherlock's rude and abrupt behaviour. Mrs. Hudson saw him as he went back up the stairs, peeking her head out and John only shrugged.

"Another one."

Another case that Sherlock had declined as though Sherlock did not want to take anything. John was sourcing anything – from the grand to the mundane, from the rich idiots missing jewellery or being blackmailed, to the young men who were wondering where their girlfriends were, none of these were appealing to the man and despite John's attempts, Sherlock was loitering around the flat since his return.

John walked up the stairs, feeling a familiar weight of each step surface in his gut as he knew he and Sherlock would be alone, however, briefly. Before John would make his excuses, go back to Mary and pretend that he didn't still feel things that he shouldn't for Sherlock – things that skittered on the surface of his skin, that played across his lips when he thought about him as he'd thought about him during his absence after his fall.

Not that John wasn't happy, if not angry and hurt, for Sherlock's return just that he had moved on. Or so he thought he had.

Sherlock was sat on his chair, it still facing the sofa, his fingers steepled and he looked up as John returned.

"Well, that was a sufficient waste of my time. Have any other pathetic young man with girlfriends who have the good sense to leave them?"

"She could be missing, Sherlock," he replied, exasperatedly.

"You don't honestly think that, John? Here he was, a whining pathetic mess of a young man, no real income, not even particularly attractive to conventional standards, who obviously is far too clingy, and you think she is missing?"

The conclusions, though did mirror John's, when came from Sherlock's mouth sounded all the more harsh and John scowled in response. "I think there was a possibility."

"I think there is none," Sherlock replied, rising to his feet and walking past John, brushing his shoulder roughly as he did. "I think you picked that particular case due to its relevance."

"Relevance?" John uttered as he followed where Sherlock had gone, finding himself in his bedroom, Sherlock's back turned to him as he undid buttons on his shirt.

"Relevance to us, John."

With that, Sherlock turned, pinning John with one of his stares that had led to things that John had tried to forget about it. After… after, the fall, John had tried to forgot all those things that Sherlock had done to him, all those looks he had given, all those feelings he had inspired. But in that instant, those images flooded back, the feelings, the way Sherlock's hands used to force him to the bed, how they used to twine in his hair as John sucked his cock, the way Sherlock's body felt against his own when they fucked in this very room. Always Sherlock's room. Always. And John stared back at that look, at the way Sherlock's eyes roamed over him, appreciating him aesthetically he supposed, in a vague way. Just as Sherlock had summarised the young man as perhaps not conventionally attractive, it was a phrase that the man had used about John. He had never been sure whether he should've been offended.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You don't?" Sherlock said, his crisp shirt hanging undone over his pale skin and John looked, swallowing, remembering. "I fear you have lost your touch during my absence if you don't."

The room suddenly felt very small, yet all of Bakers Street felt small, but when Sherlock walked across to John, purposeful strides, John wanted to take a step back as he felt hunted, felt persecuted by his calculating stare.

"You don't think you picked that case as it was us? Me – I'm Emily, leaving you, abandoning you and you – you are our sad little shop assistant who pines for me. You want to believe she's missing, John," he said, his fingers reached to touch John's arm, his head cocked. "As you want to believe they can have something again. Like us."

John removed his arm, dislodging Sherlock's grip which was light, and glared. "I have Mary. I am marrying Mary. I don't want you anymore."

Sherlock laughed and reached out to touch again. "Really? I can't imagine she satisfies you like I did. Does she know? Your wife to be, does she know?"

The hand this time was at John's neck, touching at pulse. "She doesn't and she never will."

"Wise idea. I don't think many women would be accepting of discovering their husbands to be has an… unconventional sexual history, would they? Mary thinks she is marrying a good respectable doctor - oh if she knew how I knew you, John."

"Don't," John said but it was feeble, weak as Sherlock licked his lips, done for effect, the predator stalking the prey, and that hand on his neck went to the hair at the back of his head , pulling John's neck back, exposing his throat for Sherlock to lick .

"She doesn't know how you like me to fuck you, does she? But it's not just that, how you like to be fingered, rimmed, how you love it when I suck your cock but how you love to submit and suck mine. Mary doesn't know any of this, does she?"

John wanted to pull away but found himself powerless as Sherlock swiftly moved, elegance in motion, and was behind him, his voice at his ear, breath hot on his lobe . One hand was still buried in John's hair but the other was now drifting down his chest, reaching to crotch where John was half hard from those words. He could feel Sherlock's look without seeing it - his satisfied grin, his look of triumph as though John's arousal was just another case he solved.

"Ahh yes, let's not tell her all the things that excite you - handcuffs and being tied up and begging to be fucked - she doesn't need to know that, does she? Doesn't know how you really like it - when control is given to someone else."

Sherlock then was in front of John, his hand rubbing at his cock, becoming harder even through thick material. "I knew you wanted this again - us - as you showed me every time we were alone. Your pupils dilate. Your palms sweat. You lick your lips too much. Yes John, you missed me, but you missed my hard cock more. You missed me fucking you until you could barely walk and now you can have that again..." Sherlock paused, that look in his eyes that spelled danger, "or you can go home to Mary and have boring missionary position sex. I bet she doesn't go down on you. Doesn't like the taste like I do."

He couldn't help the groan that left his lips, the way Sherlock talked about sex was both erotic and un-erotic as to Sherlock, sex was an act, a sticky messy act that he viewed without emotion – it was an action that he required, needed, and one that John had fulfilled but not one that elicited emotions.

Yet despite that, the way he talked was making John lose his resistance, lose his desire to walk out of Bakers Street and return to Mary. Mary who would never know and yes, the sex wasn't the same thrill but Mary wasn't the complex man that Sherlock was – the man that played mind games even during the act.

"Don't –"

John tried to stop the hand but then Sherlock's body was far too close, his face poised in front of his and he could feel the whispered ghost of a breath across his lips.

"Don't. Don't what? Don't touch you when you clearly want this…me? How many nights did you mourn me? How many nights did you remember me, John? Did you masturbate?"

They were too close now, he could feel the warmth of Sherlock's skin, he felt the bump of a hard cock in trousers against his thigh and knew, with some vague satisfaction, that Sherlock wanted him and he was pleased. And yes, he had mourned him. And yes, guiltily, he'd laid in sheets and remembered the man, the mystery, the legend – how he'd felt inside him, how it felt for his cock to be deep inside Sherlock, for all those blow jobs and hand jobs, that grinding, that fucking – it was things he had replayed in his head, in the shower, all those times he dared. Until Mary and he tried to forget the man who was now lightly touching his back.

"You did!" Sherlock gloated, pressing their bodies closer, and if there was a moment to run then John had it then. It would be gone in a moment but right now he had it. "Oh John, I did too, as despite there being some pretty things since you, no one was quite as willing."

The way he drew out the word "willing" made John feel a little sick in his stomach, a little pathetic but it was now, aroused, hard, close, that any thought of walking out had faded. If he walked away, he would only have to have a wank in the bathroom and it would relieve but it would not satisfy.

The tease, the gloat was too much for John so he acted with the latent violence of the anger he had since Sherlock's reappearance and grabbed at his hair, pulling it hard so that they could kiss, violently, his tongue thrusting into Sherlock's mouth, dominating him as much as he could, grinding his hips against him, wanting to make Sherlock moan and submit to him. If only a little.

Kissing was something they had not done at first, Sherlock only making it permissible after some time, so John exploited that now, running his tongue over palate and teeth, making sure it was good. And the kiss got out some of those damn feelings, some of that anger and need and want. It also bled away any memories of Mary – of her kisses that were never like this – nothing with Mary was comparable to Sherlock.

He dragged Sherlock's lower lips between his teeth, pulling it back as his mouth went to his jaw, to his throat, his hands already on Sherlock's exposed chest and he felt a sharp spike of arousal as Sherlock hands groped his ass, holding him firmly, keeping their bodies tight.

"Fuck," John moaned, unable to help the sound escaping as he mouthed at a sensitive spot on Sherlock's neck.

"My thoughts exactly," came the retort and it made John push, using his hips, guiding Sherlock towards the bed, forcing him to sit. "To fuck you, specifically."

The words, the tone, the self-satisfied tone, was one that John couldn't stand so he did what he knew might at least stop some of that gloating, dropping to his knees, undoing fly and unzipping trousers, nuzzling then at the front of Sherlock's every so dull grey briefs, hearing a little reaction for that, as then he lowered them enough to bring out his cock, taking it in his mouth without thought.

He had not done this since Sherlock yet it was instinctive, the way Sherlock's hands curled into his hair as he licked around the head, slid his lips up and down the shaft, sucking and using every technique he had ever known. He found the taste not unpleasant, found the feeling of those fingers in his hair soothing and the little sounds Sherlock made were encouraging him. Encouraging John to take him deeper, to use a hand at the base and make Sherlock lose that control he so prided himself on. But his hair was being pulled on, hard, harder than necessary and John released the cock in his mouth, taking a lick around the slit as he did, and then looked up at the man.

"No, not yet."

And John rose to his feet, only for his own belt to be undone, for his own cock to be sucked and as Sherlock ran a tongue down him, mouthed at his hard flesh, he said words to make him angry. "She doesn't do this like I do, does she?"

John tried to be articulate and fight it but Sherlock deep throated him, a skill that Sherlock would joke that he had acquired during his school days, and John found he could barely think due to the sensation, the swallowing around him, the humming, and he felt release coil in his gut, his balls throbbing and he came, hot, white flashing behind his eyes as he did. He felt that Sherlock swallowed, licked him clean as he released him from his lips and he looked down.

"I bet she doesn't swallow."

It was now he could walk away, leave, but the man was too fucking compelling and John accepted a kiss, tasting of his own cum, finding himself on the bed with Sherlock looming over him, clothes being shed in sudden impatience, something vaguely feral about Sherlock. He found his hands pushed above his head, Sherlock commanding some of that power that John had always found far too erotic and he felt himself shiver as Sherlock licked and sucked at the skin of his chest, intending to make him hard again, his dick now flaccid but becoming more interested.

"I bet she can't read your body like I can. Doesn't know this," Sherlock said, licking a path of a scar, and John unconsciously jerked, his cock beginning to harden a little as Sherlock played his body like his violin – skilled and uncompromising. And John could only moan, only enjoy the suckling of flesh, making bruises in his skin.

"Shit," he said out loud, as Sherlock's mouth nipped and teased, his fingers now joining – he'd be unable, unwilling to tell Mary this - to let her know how he got the marks on his chest and she'd think, she'd know, and even that thought didn't make him pull away, didn't make him kick out as this time Sherlock missed his cock, starting to rise again, instead, licking to his balls and John felt himself spasm at that attention.

"So responsive, John, you always have been. Turn over."

He glared down at the man but he wanted, he wanted fingers and tongue, things that only Sherlock had ever done and he complied, feeling a mouth kiss at the ridges of his spine, smooth down to his lower back, further, further downwards until hands were pulling cheeks apart and a tongue licked, making him shudder and rub himself against the rough material of Sherlock's bed.

"She doesn't do this. Your body tells me."

John was unable to deny that as he quivered, as he felt his body become over-sensitised, over-heated, the tongue thrusting lightly and teasing, then to be joined by fingers, slicked by lube found in some location and John was lost then. Lost to a talented bastard.

"Ahhh yes, you want me now so badly. You don't enjoy my tease. Already hard again, already wanting me just from a few licks and some fingering." Sherlock's words didn't help as fingers, two, slid inside, caressing, spreading, touching him, and John moaned into the pillow helplessly, pathetically. "I'm watching my fingers slide in and out. Your body wants me. And it will have it soon enough."

"Sherlock," John growled, sick of the words and the tease but those fingers were now rougher, fucking him, two becoming three and he knew Sherlock was at least getting somewhat frustrated himself, the tone of his voice revealing that.

As despite Sherlock's power over him, John still had picked up enough deducing skills for him to know things about the man even if he thought he was so unreadable. As within this – in these moments between them, John had seen Sherlock as a man, a man who had desires and needs and ones that John satisfied.

The need was becoming more prominent and John felt hands lift as his hips and he obeyed them, feeling then, a final tease, the feeling of Sherlock's cock against him, sliding, slick. John threw a look over his shoulder, anger and need in his eyes and Sherlock gave one little smirk.

"As you wish."

The first plunge had the twist of pain/pleasure – that ripple that radiated over his body and Sherlock ran one hand along his back in a soothing motions, the other under him to stroke at his cock, a few hard tugs acting as a distraction as he continued his movements in, small hip motions in and out that made John's head hit the mattress underneath him and he let out a low groan that he couldn't help. It had been so long since he'd felt Sherlock inside him – fucking him, owning him – and he had only fingered himself on occasions, never feeling like this – never wanting to feel like this again if he never got it.

"Oh John… you don't know how good you feel."

"Just get on with it."

"Impatient? Well, it has been a while, hasn't it?" Sherlock emphasised his words with a thrust of hips that made John grip the quilt underneath him tighter, bite down on his lower lips. "I promise not to be gentle."

At that word gentle, Sherlock did as he promised, pulling out to plunge back in, thrusting hard, each push forward expertly executed like everything he did. Fucking him like no one else could and John pushed back, wanting more, wanting to take more of Sherlock inside him, all of him. He felt his balls slap against him at each forceful push and the fuck being as angry and brutal as John needed it to be.

He never wanted gentle and he enjoyed the feel, the depth, the hand that gripped his hips tight, the hand that was a fist around his cock, steadily leaking pre-cum from the tip as Sherlock skilfully manipulated his body.

Sherlock's hand on his cock went to his stomach, pushing him back into him, into Sherlock's lap so that John felt his cock so deep and he threw his head back onto Sherlock's shoulder, riding him, bunching his thighs up and down, the position hurting his muscles but making the pleasure being so much more intense.

"John, you're going to come so hard from this, from me fucking you, from my hand around your cock ," Sherlock said, those words in his ear as he licked at his throat. "You want that, don't you? I can read your body and you want it."

"Stop," he said, but John didn't want him to and Sherlock ignored his entreaty anyway his hand speeding up, his hips thrusting upwards to John's downward motions and they were reaching some end together – their climaxes making them both selfish, moving against each other needy, wanting to come.

Sherlock's thumb played at the slit of John's cock, sliding the wetness over the head and it was with that and a sharp hard thrust, that John came, feeling Sherlock's hips pump hard into him until he too came, splashing deep inside him.

The rush of climax was brief as John slid forward, collapsing onto a wet patch on the bed, guilt already gnawing at him as he felt Sherlock leave the bed, as he always had, to clean himself, rid himself of the act as soon as it had happened. Feeling boneless, John found his clothes, using a tissue, throwing it in the bin and then dressing swiftly.

As he finished dressing, Sherlock appeared in the doorway again, unconcerned about his nakedness and reached for a robe.

"Isn't it time for you to go back to Mary?"

John didn't answer, only brushed past him as Sherlock had done in the moment that had started all this, not wanting to meet his eye, not wanting to discuss it – only wanting to leave. As Mary would be waiting, patiently, and she wouldn't know what he had done – what he needed, what he wanted from a man like Sherlock and already he felt guilt. Already he wanted him again.

"Sherlock," he said, turning, his eyes meeting his and he paused, not wanting to say anything more.

"We'll do this again, John, like we always did."

And without another word, John left 221b Bakers Street, walking down the stairs quickly not bothering to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, not able to, as John didn't want to have to face someone so soon after what they had just done. As John didn't want to admit it but they would do it again. And again as while what they did was wrong, John would always want Sherlock, want him to fuck him hard into the mattress and he would have to live with that need and guilt.


End file.
